The Letter Read online

  I’m rooting through my jacket pocket for my keys, which seem to have vanished beneath the detritus of tissues and Chapstick, when a tall figure looms out of the darkness and lurches towards me. Instinct makes me gasp, my hand flies out of my pocket and the keys clatter onto the ground.

  “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to make you jump!”

  Thankfully the moon chooses this moment to stop being bashful and reveal the person making the apology. It isn’t a zombie as I’d feared. Instead, standing in front of me is a tall man with long raven hair and a friendly face that must smile a lot, judging by the crinkles that star out around his eyes. He’s not wearing bloodstained rags either, but instead is clad in overalls tucked into country boots. In any case, his arms are too full of logs to reach out and grab me.

  I pause with my hand pressed over my galloping heart, feeling like an idiot. The lumber man. Of course. There’s a truck pulled up by the gate, which I would have noticed if I hadn’t been so lost in thought.

  “You must be Larry the Log,” I say.

  The man smiles. In the moonlight his teeth are white and even.

  “I’m afraid I’m just the lowly stand-in. Larry’s my uncle, and I know he’d have made a much better job of stacking the logs than I have, but the vicar said this was an emergency delivery, so I lent a hand. I was just about to leave these in the porch to save you a trip to the woodshed.”

  “You’ve carried them all up and stacked them?” I’m thrilled to hear this. I’d thought I was about to become very fit courtesy of The Log Workout. Picking splinters out of my palms might have passed a few hours too.

  The stranger looks shocked. “Of course I have. You didn’t think you’d have to do it on your own?”

  I do a lot of things on my own these days and I’m getting used to it. Neil would be amazed how good I am at putting bins out and catching spiders.

  “It’s called girl power,” I say, and the log man laughs.

  “That dates you! And me too, I think!”

  I look at him with interest, trying to place his age. He’s got to be mid-thirties at least and has dark grey eyes, a full mouth and wide high cheekbones crying out to be sketched or painted. For the second time today, my fingers itch to hold a paintbrush.

  “So, can I put these down?” he asks when I don’t reply. “Only, my arms are killing me and I’m running a bit late.”

  I’m glad it’s dark so that he can’t see my face turn red. Lost in thoughts of light and angles, I’ve been staring at him. Goodness knows what he thinks. That I fancy him, probably. After all, I’m a cliché aren’t I? The young widow turning up to grieve in a clifftop Cornish house and being swept off her feet by a local tradesman who mends her broken heart. It’s classic Mills and Boon stuff.

  “Sorry, yes of course,” I tell him quickly, stepping back to allow him to stack his armful of logs. I don’t comment while he does so, simply because I don’t have a clue what to say. I’m so used to being on my own that making conversation feels like an effort; it’s as though my vocal cords have silted up from lack of use. Maybe I should get a cat to talk to?

  I wasn’t always so useless when it came to chatting to men, of course. It used to come easily and one of the things I loved about being married was feeling protected from all the misunderstandings and silly games that occurred to friends who were single. I belonged to Neil and he belonged to me; nothing and nobody else mattered. Nobody else ever will matter. We were each other’s best friend. Are each other’s best friend. Neil might not be here but that doesn’t mean I love him any less. I touch my wedding ring for reassurance and instantly my pulse begins to slow. I can do this. I can lead a normal life. By the time the logs are neatly stacked I have control of myself again.

  “How much do I owe you?” I ask.

  The log man smiles and, just as I suspected, the smile crinkles his eyes. “Call it a moving-in gift. Welcome to Rosecraddick.”

  I can’t accept charity. It doesn’t feel right. Especially not when it’s offered by an attractive man.

  “Absolutely not. I have to pay for them.”

  “Then you’ll need to take that up with my uncle and the vicar, but maybe once you’ve carried a few inside and lit the fire? It’s getting cold.”

  He’s right. I can see our breath as we speak.

  I nod, not wanting to keep him a second longer. “OK, I’ll do that. Thanks for dropping them off at such short notice.”

  “No problem,” he says. “Besides, I couldn’t have you freezing to death on my conscience, could I? That wouldn’t be a good start to your time here.”

  I open my mouth to quip that this would be a happy release, but stop myself just in time. One thing I’ve learned is that people don’t know how to handle my dark comments. They either laugh awkwardly or wonder if I actually mean it, and the trouble is I’m not always sure myself.

  Anyway. I need to stop thinking like this. It worries Mum and sent my GP into a tailspin. I have to focus on practical things like lighting my range and settling in. Gallows humour is a delicate art when you’re a widow. It’s probably best left well alone.

  “Thanks,” I say again. Then, with another crinkly smile, he’s walking away down the path. Moments later the truck’s engine coughs into life and the vehicle drives away, its headlamps sweeping beams of light through the gathering darkness. Once the truck rounds the corner and the only light comes from the fat moon rising above the Rectory’s roof, I stand alone in the porch with just my log pile and the odd screech owl for company. The log man was nice, and the quiet that falls now he’s left feels deeper and lonelier than before. I sigh and scoop up some wood. Solitude was what I wanted and I’d better get used to it.

  It’s only when I’ve laid and lit the fire, coaxed the range into life and made tea that I realise I never even asked his name.

  Chapter 5

  Chloe

  I’ve never been religious – at least, not in the sense of going to church regularly – and after Neil died any faint hope I might have had in a benign universe or a kindly deity perished with him. I couldn’t make sense of a being who’d let the children he supposedly loved suffer, who could step aside and watch as needles pierced veins and hair drifted to the floor, and I certainly couldn’t countenance a God who’d close his ears to my pleas and prayers or let my tears fall and have no compassion to dry them. None of it made sense to me.

  I railed against what was happening. I begged for it to be different. I read books. I chanted. Prayed to angels. Burned incense. Talked to priests. I did all of it and the outcome was still the same. As a result, I’ve come to only one conclusion, albeit a depressing one: we really are on our own and there is no rhyme or reason to anything that happens. We look for sense and we search for patterns or a grand design in the desperate attempt to make meaning out of what frightens us the most – the possibility that there is no meaning. Bad things happen to good people. Evil prospers. Young fit men get sick and die. Children starve. Teenagers are murdered in bomb blasts at music concerts. There is no reason or divine plan. Crap things happen. End of.

  That’s been my reasoning over the past two and a half years, although I’m not sure whether it’s a comfort or not. Sometimes the loss of my constant, if faint, belief that there was something more, something greater than we can see, is as painful as losing my husband. Those are the days when it all feels especially bleak, days when I might not go far from the house, and it’s even an effort to haul myself out of bed. If there’s no meaning to it all then what’s the purpose of anything? I said as much once to my counsellor, which was tantamount to pressing a big red alarm button, and I’ve been very careful to censor expressing such sentiments since. Now I keep my nihilistic thoughts to myself and if I don’t want to get up or eat anything then it’s my business. Whoever wrote that Stop all the clocks poem was bang on the money.

  But since I arrived in Rosecraddick something’s shifted. Try as I might to keep hold of my new faith in the certainty of nothingness, it’s starting
to slip away from me. Maybe it’s something to do with living next door to an ancient church; perhaps the peace and the faith of generations have crept into me as though through osmosis. Or perhaps it’s the ceaseless sound of the waves breaking onto the rocks below, as they have done for centuries. Or maybe it’s seeing those names on the stained-glass window, recorded in the firm belief that their sacrifice was for a greater good and would be remembered long after their faces faded from memory. I can’t say for sure, but I do know that when I wake up in a house a little less arctic than before (if not exactly warm), something’s changed deep down inside of me. It’s something I can’t explain or rationalise, but while I sip coffee in the kitchen and watch the day break I have the strangest feeling that there is meaning after all. Maybe I just haven’t known quite where to look. The daisy in the window has raised a thousand questions and I want to examine it again. Maybe I’ll even sketch it.

  That’s more like it! Neil’s nodding approvingly at me from the doorway. Get outside and do something! Get drawing!

  Sunlight spills from the landing window and he trembles for a moment in the dust motes before vanishing. Not that he was ever really here, but the fact that my mind can still conjure him again makes my heart lift. For months I’ve struggled to picture his face and this has terrified me. I’ve closed my eyes and tried over and over again to dream him back into being: the startlingly blue eyes, the funny little scar that bisected his left eyebrow, the chicken-pox dent on his opposite cheekbone, the lock of hair that always fell over his face and that grew back as fast as he cut it. No matter how much I wished for them, these images wouldn’t come. I tortured myself by looking at photographs but when I put them away again there was nothing but a blank. I’d had the feeling that coming to Rosecraddick was the answer to finding Neil again and it turns out that I’m right.

  Does that mean that there is more to life? Am I any closer to finding the answers?

  Anyway, Neil always was one for getting up at the crack of dawn and beginning the day. I’ve lost count of the times I wanted to burrow under the duvet or just turn the electric blanket on, drink tea and read a book but was chivvied into an early morning walk or a 4 a.m. spin to the coast. I might have complained then but now I’m so glad I didn’t waste the short time we did have together. I finish my coffee, rinse the mug in the kitchen sink, throw a couple more logs into the range’s firebox and wander upstairs to get dressed. By the time I let myself out of the Rectory, swaddled in my coat and with my feet scoring dark green prints in the white grass, the sun is higher and busy turning the frost to diamonds. Iced spider webs sparkle on bushes, the path crunches under my spotty city wellies and a blackbird trills alarm at my approach. The notes, loud and jarring against the morning quiet, make me jump.

  It might be early but as I enter the church a rush of dusty warmth tells me that the heaters have been busy for some time. The neatly stacked hymn books and flickering candles hint that an early morning Eucharist has already been celebrated. Lights suspended on chains lashed to ancient beams throw puddles of brightness into the shadows, and somebody’s arranged displays of poppies on the windowsills. The petals are vivid splashes glowing with life and colour against the sober stonework.

  I find Kit’s window and study it. There’s no mistaking the exquisite skill of the craftsman who pieced together the design in such intricate fashion. I paint with acrylics and watercolours, but this craftsman painted with glass and lead; I’m in awe of his talent. The longer I look, though, the more the daisy seems out of place, even though I suppose it’s intended to be seen and acknowledged. The style of it’s different and I’m certain it’s been added later than the rest of the window. But why would that be?

  It’s a total mystery. No matter how long I stand and stare at the window, I can’t make any sense of it. My eyes are dazzled by a kaleidoscope of jade and gold and vermillion, and my head spins with questions.

  “What a lovely surprise to see you here, Chloe!”

  Sue Perry’s beaming at me. She moves in front of me and the window forms a halo of primary colours behind her. For a moment I imagine I’m talking to a frizzy-haired angel.

  “You’ve come for the Remembrance Sunday service?” Sue continues. It isn’t really a question though; she’s already passing over a hymn book while gently shepherding me along to a pew. Glancing at my watch, I’m stunned to see that it’s almost ten thirty. People are walking into the church and the organ’s playing in the background. I must have been studying the window for well over an hour. No wonder my cramped feet tingle when I move them. Over sixty minutes have flown by. How on earth did that happen?

  I have noticed that time’s been weird recently. It drags or it gallops but it’s never constant. Since Neil died, days can seem like years – but in the bitterest of ironies, the time we spent together feels as though it tore past in a blur. There were never enough minutes to tell him all the things I needed to say. In the early days I devoted a lot of effort to pleading for more time and making ludicrous bargains that of course I would never be able to fulfil. Perky Pippa tried to explain that this was all part of a process, but it didn’t feel nearly that organised to me.

  I’m about to tell Sue that no, I’m not here for the service when I glance up at the window again. This time my attention’s captured by the list of fallen heroes from the village, rather than being drawn to Kit Rivers’ golden grace. What does it matter how I feel about church or religion? Never mind my own personal issues. Today’s about honouring all of those who willingly suffered untold horrors so that people like me could have freedom. I also read Kit’s poems last night, and even on a sparkly winter’s day like this I’m haunted by the bleakness of his verse and the appalling reality of the Western Front. The least I can do is give an hour of my time to a service in the honour of those who fought for their king and country.

  “I hope the logs arrived?” Sue asks as I take the hymn book and slide to the far end of the front pew. “Although the fact you’re here and not in hospital with hypothermia suggests they did?”

  “They did indeed. Thanks so much for organising it. I don’t know what you said but the delivery guy even stacked them for me,” I tell her.

  “I might have hinted something about putting in a good word with my Boss,” Sue laughs. “Naughty of me and definitely not in the rules, but needs must! In any case, I’m glad you’re sorted and I’m even more glad you’re here in church today. We’ll catch up about arranging that pizza, OK?”

  “OK,” I agree, and Sue promises to call in and firm up a date. Then, in a swish of ecclesiastical robes, she’s off to welcome her flock. As I return my attention back to Kit’s window I think about the poems he left behind, poems that speak of loss and heartache and love of home, and I can’t help but think he and his comrades would be pleased to know their sacrifice isn’t forgotten. Mulling on this, I settle down to the service.

  The packed church is testament to both Sue’s popularity and the respect felt for Rosecraddick’s fallen sons. I’m moved by the words in the readings as wreaths are laid beneath the stained-glass memorial.

  An elderly man reads Laurence Binyon’s For The Fallen. His voice quavers and I wonder who it is that his cloudy eyes are seeing. A father? A brother? A comrade? I’m seeing Neil because he’ll never age either: he’ll remain thirty-one in my memory, forever young and strong and fit and full of life, as likely to throw me over his shoulder and carry me up to bed as he was to go running or cycling. That’s the Neil I’ll always picture, not the tired shell of a man hooked up to drips, who gripped my hand in his thin fingers as though it was all that tethered him to this life.

  Maybe it was? He slipped away when I wasn’t there to weave my fingers with his. I wasn’t by his side at the end to hold him, tell him I loved him and reassure him that it was all right to leave. I’d gone to get a coffee. A bloody coffee. How banal and desperately, dreadfully ill-timed. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for not being there. It doesn’t matter how many nurses tell
me that loved ones often wait until they’re alone to leave or that he was in no pain or even that he wouldn’t have known; it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to me.

  I know.

  I let him down. How will I ever get over knowing that? The answer is that I can’t and deep in my heart I don’t think I deserve to either. Surely it’s only a matter of time before the smiling Neil that I’ve seen lately tells me exactly how badly done this was.

  I’m sorry, I say silently as my eyes brim with tears and the whole church wobbles like blancmange. I’m so sorry.

  “We will remember them,” concludes the elderly man.

  A tear splashes onto my hymn book. I haven’t cried for months and I’m taken aback because I wondered whether I couldn’t cry at all, as though I’d used all my tears up in the first few days of choking out angry sobs. These words, coupled with the peace of the church and the beauty of its rainbows of light, have unlocked something in me. Suddenly I’m terrified that after months of drought there could be a flood. I swallow hard and dig my nails into the palms of my hand. Time, Chloe. It just takes time to heal, remember? That’s what everyone says.

  But the problem is nobody seems to have a clue exactly how much time it takes. Are we talking decades? Centuries? Or maybe even aeons?

  We observe the two minutes of silence and I study Kit’s window again, blinking my tears away and distracting myself by imagining what his real story might be. I wonder what he’d think of this memorial. Would he like it? Or would he laugh and say that he was nothing like the angelic depiction? Did he like girls? Drink? Fast horses? New-fangled motor cars? I guess nobody will ever know now; the true Kit is lost and all that remains is this sanitised version that his mother paid to have immortalised in glass. If I saw him now, could he explain why somebody had added the daisy? Did it mean anything to him?

  My head’s pounding. So many questions that will never be answered. The dead take their secrets with them, I suppose. Maybe that’s just as well? Do I really want to know how Neil feels about his wife missing his last moments because she wanted some caffeine?